England Expects
by Maudlin Matryoshka
Summary: On a warm October day, England strives desperately to defend his home and his people from takeover by the French, and strikes fear into the heart of Francis Bonnefoy. The result is a message of hope and a battle the world has never forgotten. A drabble about the events of the Battle of Trafalgar, 1805. No ships.


**Suggested listening: Oublie Pas by Karkwa**

**Setting: Battle of Trafalgar, Cape Trafalgar, Spain. 21 October, 1805.**

* * *

Francis Bonnefoy, embodiment of the French Empire, stands with a telescope to his eye on the main deck of _la Redoubtable_ off the coast of Spain and sneers.

Arranged in a formidable line across from his messy fleet is His English Majesty's fleet, the HMS _Victory_ leading the way. Both sides are prepared for battle; both know that the fate of England hangs in the balance today. They are still too far away for France to see clearly, but he knows that his rival of the ages, and one time dearest friend, the personification of the British Empire will be aboard the _Victory, _telescope pressed to his eye in a bitter reflection of himself.

France has England outnumbered. Severely. With a combined Franco-Spanish fleet at his back, France is on top of the world, riding high and mighty as the strongest nation known to man. His victory over the indomitable English Royal Navy will cement that status for all to see. Soon after, England himself will follow, and then the world. These words, whispered in his ear as Spain embraced him earlier this morning, play like a fanfare in his head. And now, he and Spain will prove the prediction true.

The British fleet has stopped in the water, preparing for war. Admiral Villeneuve comes up behind him, and silently requests the telescope. He studies the opposing ships for a long moment, and sighs.

"Be in good spirits, Admiral. Today, the French shall shake the very foundation of the earth!"

Villeneuve looks at him for a long moment, and hands back the telescope. "Look. The British are raising flags."

Flags? Perhaps communication amongst the fleet? France, without lowering the telescope, barks out an order at the nearest cabin boy to fetch him a book, recently confiscated from a British prisoner of war. The book, written in precise English, is titled ""Telegraphic Signals of Marine Vocabulary": a book of maritime codes. Half the message is already complete, and France flips through the book, hurriedly translating the coded message. He is hoping for something useful, something that the Brits think the French will not understand.

"England…expects…that…every…"

He squints, straining to make out the flags before they are fully hoisted.

"…man…will…do…his…"

The next word is spelled out letter by letter, and as each flag becomes visible, France feels a cold tickle in the pit of his stomach.

"D…U…T…Y. England expects that every man will do his duty."

As the last of the flags go up, a great cheer rises out of the water from the British like a waterspout that can be heard across the cape. The admiral glances at him, waiting for a reaction, and he grants him a tiny smile, tight but proud, and fingers the sword at his side. The battle anticipation is pounding in his head, his basest natures rising to the surface to make him all that he can be. In every part of him he is waiting, wanting to feel the sword drive through his enemy with all of the strength and might and magnificence of the French empire.

That would be ideal.

The truth, however, however much he will ignore and deny and outdo like the rooster he is, is that somewhere, deep inside, irrationally, illogically, is a stirring that he has not felt in a long time: fear.

* * *

There is an instant, when the cannon blows, when the gunners yell, when the HMS _Victory_ groans and heaves against the side of the ruined _Redoubtable_, when England leaps forward to board the enemy ship, sword slashing his way, France loses his footing and tumbles backward into a pile of ropes. An arm comes up to knock his hat away from his eyes, and above him is England, the full strength of the sun behind him, blinding. Just for a moment, the world halts on its axis, and France's heart stops, because it is England, and yet, he has never seen him like this. The man is lit from inside, emitting a glowing pulse form his eyes, his fingertips, he is at the height of his glory. He is a lion in human form, huge and immensely powerful, bearing down on him with the fullness of his anger and hatred and overwhelming might. The American Revolution has hardened him, solidified his power, France knows, but he had not realized the depth and extent of England's newfound resplendence until this moment. This is a new England, a great lion, a king at the height of his glorious reign, a majesty and splendor above anything the world has ever seen, fire clearing his way and leaving the churning ocean in his wake, a great green mist dotted with tongues of flame reaching out to envelope him. As France lies frozen in awe-struck, dumbfounded, mind-numbing terror, the world is kind, and allows an instant for their eyes to meet. In that instant, France's mind thaws, and the tiny part of him that is not consumed by shock and fear searches England's eyes and wonders where the strong, yet supple man he shared a home away from home with half a world away in the Eden of the New World has gone, whether the side of him that sang hymns in the morning while making tea, cultivated roses in the garden, and kissed their boys goodnight before joining him on the roof to watch the stars still lurks behind all the damage he has taken in the past years and the ferocious hatred in his eyes.

Another instant passes, and England catches him searching. His face clamps down, denying access to the perceptive Frenchman, but the corner of his mouth twists, and it is enough.

His Arthur lives.

France brings his sword up in a smashing blow to defend himself, and as England falters, blood spurting from his nose, he springs to his feet, ready for action. The two begin the deadly dance of swordplay, hell raining down around them as sailors struggle and hack and fall and die for their countries. France's own confidence, his own purpose and force come flooding back, buoyed by desire, for conquest and for dominance. His own veil of hatred once again settles in front of his gaze, as he feels the deaths of the French sailors around him. He rises to England's challenge, allowing himself to fully embody all the grandeur and puissance of the French Napoleonic Empire.

Theirs will be a battle the world will never forget.

* * *

**A/N: **Takes place at the Battle of Trafalgar, a decisive British victory against Napoleonic France . The Franco-Spanish fleet lost twenty-two ships, without a single British vessel being lost. This victory changed the tide of the War of the Third Coalition, and protected Britain from invasion by the French. The phrase "England expects that every man will do his duty" is an iconic phrase from that battle. Lord Admiral Nelson, an English naval hero aboard the HMS _Victory, _instructed the message to be flown to encourage the British sailors before engaging the French and Spanish. Admiral Villeneuve was a real historical figure as well, aboard the _Redoubtable_, commanding the combined fleet.

The cover picture is taken from an Untitled painting by Auguste Mayer of the Battle of Trafalgar, painted in 1836.

R&R please.


End file.
